The Country Escape

by Fiona Walker

  He smiled lazily. ‘Would you like me to mix you one too, darling?’

  Very little penetrated. The fact that the vet was unable to continue treating Zephyr without Dougie’s credit-card number was one of the few things that galvanized him into action as he went to track down his wallet, which had been missing for several days.

  Kiki had taken his ash-stained, charred tux out on to the veranda to hang on the washing line because she couldn’t stand the smell of smoke on it. Dougie found his wallet in an inside pocket, along with his apartment keys and a clutch of business cards. He looked at the top one.

  Seth.

  He must have been at the party on the night of the fire, Dougie realized. The businessman who had bought a production company to stop Dougie getting a big role had attended the Du Ponts’ ruby wedding anniversary. Had he been there by design too?

  He thought back to the extraordinary meeting with Dollar at the ice hotel and her increasingly coercive calls. What was it Abe had said? If you turn this guy down I don’t think you’ll be working for the rest of the year.

  Dougie felt a sudden chill go through him. On impulse, he called the number and found it picked up in just one ring. ‘Seth.’

  ‘It’s Dougie Everett. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Good. I’ll send a car.’ He rang off.

  Dougie’s eyebrows shot up. His James Bond fantasies were reignited, but they gave him no pleasure. With them came a spark of anger he’d not experienced since the fire. How did this guy know where he was? Did the business card have a secret tracking device? Dougie could have been jogging round Glendale for all the man knew. He poured himself a large drink, remembered he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes and decided to take a shower.

  When it arrived, the car was an upmarket private-hire limo with a driver in grey livery. Dougie stared out at the landscape sliding by. It was several minutes before he grasped that they were heading for the airport.

  ‘Hang on, I’m not flying anywhere.’ He had to meet the vet at three o’clock, and he’d promised some expat friends who shared a house in the hills that he’d call by afterwards, knowing they wanted to cheer him up.

  A smart blonde airport official met him at the car and escorted him swiftly through security and up in a lift to a VIP lounge high above the concourse, infused with the smell of wealth, leather seats and rich coffee. Several men in suits were gazing at screens small and large as they awaited flights. A woman in tailored pinstripes gave Dougie a lingering look, taking in the dishevelled blond sex appeal amid so much monochrome.

  ‘Seth’s plane has just landed,’ the airport official told him, leading the way through to a small private meeting room with walls more glacially white than those of the ice hotel. ‘It’s getting accelerated clearance. He will be with you in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Lucky I caught him flying in.’

  ‘He turned his plane around, Mr Everett.’ She left him with a nod, and Dougie fought a James Bond urge to scan the room for bugs and escape routes. He had a nasty feeling that he’d just walked into a trap. Lacking sleep, still more than a little pissed, he had conspiracy theories rattling around in his head like ricocheting bullets, wondering if Seth could possibly have been behind the fire. As he waited, the man became a monster in his mind, set on destruction. At least being airside in one of the highest security airports in the world meant there was little likelihood that Seth would be armed, he thought wildly, as the door opened and he swung around – he could take the man down with one quick combat strike before he knew what was happening.

  But Seth’s smile packed more ammunition than a cargo hold filled with gun shells. Dressed in a suit sharper than a Kasumi blade, he shook Dougie’s hand and beamed at him. ‘That call was perfect timing, man – any later and I’d have been too far on my way to London to swing a U-turn. I’m Seth. Great to meet you again.’ The voice was smooth and unhurried, almost lazy, the accent hard to place, with traces of Yorkshire, India and the States.

  Before Dougie could say anything, Seth held up his hand apologetically as his phone burst into life with strains of a recent rap hit. ‘I must take this – Igor, kak d’ela podruga?’ He turned away, instantly talking in the quiet, lethally effective tones of a man whose business fortune earned more interest in a day than Dougie earned in a year.

  Looking at the back of his head, Dougie contemplated another combat move, a blow to that neatly clipped neck bringing instant knock-down before he stood over him and hissed, ‘Bully me all you like, but never, ever hurt one of my animals!’ Even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Last night’s Xanax was lifting, along with his conspiracy theories.

  Seth was talking in a mixture of Russian and English on the phone, and Dougie could see a predator beneath the hand-stitched wool. This was no cheery techno-geek made lucky. The face immediately imprinted itself in the mind, high-cheekboned, long-nosed and watchful, with hypnotically clever eyes. The coat, suit and shoes were all hand-made, Italian and beautifully designed in the understated way that screamed class. Seth was not much older than Dougie, but was what his City friends would call a seriously high-baller.

  He turned back to Dougie as soon as he was off the phone, grey eyes serious. ‘I heard about the fire. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Is that why you turned your plane around?’ Dougie eyed him warily. ‘To offer your sympathy?’

  ‘I want you to work for me.’

  ‘So I gathered. You’re more of a no-other-opportunities employer than equal opportunities.’

  ‘Forgive me. My assistant has been a little over-zealous.’

  For a brief moment Dougie had an image of Dollar and a can of petrol stalking along the stables aisle before he dismissed it as fantasy. ‘My career prospects have hardly improved in the past week.’

  ‘You’re a great performer.’ Seth’s pitch was as positive as Abe’s. ‘I loved you in Dark Knight, man. It was worth watching for the stunts alone. How you can ride so fast carrying a lethal weapon is mind-blowing, then nailing it exactly on target – pow!’ He settled in one of the squashy leather chairs and indicated for Dougie to do likewise, but he remained standing, the anger spark flicking in his pulse. He knew he must stay calm – it was ludicrous to imagine Seth had had anything to do with the fire, yet he couldn’t shake the notion that a man capable of plucking him off a mountain in Romania to take him to a hotel made of ice or turning around a private jet over LA was capable of pretty much anything.

  ‘Tell me, if you think I’m such a great actor, why do you want me to put that career on hold for a year to hunt hounds for you?’

  ‘I don’t want you to stop acting. This will be a high-profile role for you and better paid than any movies you’ll make in the time.’

  Dougie laughed disbelievingly. ‘I can’t see the Bafta jury agreeing.’

  ‘You’re the strongest candidate by far. You’ve hunted all your life. You’re a skilled archer, an experienced marksman and horseman. I’m mad for history, and you have what it takes to show off ancient techniques of English hunting using dogs, employing horseback archery, along with spears, lance and crossbow, and working with hawks. My Russian and American colleagues would love to see all that, man.’

  ‘I’ve never worked with a hawk, unless you count doubling for Ethan Hawke in a cavalry charge when I was first starting out in movies. And if you want someone to perform medieval stunt displays, there are plenty of good trick riders I can recommend. I’m through with that.’

  ‘You need a year out working for me.’ Seth ignored his negativity. ‘Your movie career won’t go away. You currently have more Google searches on your name by UK women than any other British actor.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have a team of researchers. According to them, you were also once the youngest master of foxhounds in England.’

  ‘That’s only because my father had to retire from the mastership when he got banged up.’ He looked down, uncomfortable with the memory. ‘I took over fo
r the rest of the season. Chip off the old block, me – just as good across trappy country, but equally unreliable and easily bought. You won’t find many referees on my CV.’

  ‘I don’t need a reference, just your agreement.’

  ‘You’d be better off with a good professional from one of the established hunts. Offer them decent accommodation and a bonus and they might even marry your unwanted sitting tenant for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Seth looked baffled.

  Dougie smirked, suddenly guessing that Dollar’s over-enthusiasm might have led her to omit a few key details to her boss about the job description she’d given him. ‘I heard something about a girl who was left a farm on the estate.’

  It was Seth’s turn to duck his head and look up through a guarded forest of brows and lashes. ‘Dollar has that in hand. It’s of no consequence. I need you to entertain very exclusive clients. They will have the best sport with the most charming of huntsmen.’

  ‘In which case, you’d be better off calling Otis Ferry.’

  Seth sucked his lower lip, dark grey eyes amused, a smile showing very straight white teeth. ‘I appreciate you may not be capable of providing this level of sport, and I do have other options…’

  Dougie, who would normally insist he was capable of anything, had too many shadows across his life right now to rise to the bait.

  ‘I will pay you half a million pounds for the year. From this, you will need to cover all the expenses of the hunt, including staff and horses. Your accommodation is free, and you’ll receive a generous weekly living allowance and your own transport. Anything left over at the end of the year is yours to keep, as are all tips, which I’m sure my house guests will offer. They’re very wealthy men, so the tips will be generous, trust me.’

  Dougie knew this was a huge amount of money and security by any huntsman’s standards – most were paid less than a farm labourer and the accommodation was lousy, often damp and unheated, with no job security. The thrill was in the work. By the same token, it was a hell of a lot more than he’d ever have stood to earn as a stuntman. As an actor, only a big break would come close to matching it. This was easy money. It was an old-fashioned master’s guarantee; he was paid it all up front and if he kept control of the purse-strings, he pocketed the leftovers. If he boxed clever, he could easily pay off his current debts and cover all Zephyr’s vet bills.

  ‘The position starts on the first of May, so I must have your decision this week. This is a very important position, Dougie. There’s a lot riding on it.’

  ‘Including you when the season starts.’

  ‘I will not be taking part in field sports. My faith forbids it. Riding was my great-grandfather’s passion – he was a quite brilliant cavalryman.’ His eyes darkened and he looked away, watching through the window as a plane came in to land. ‘I prefer flying.’

  Dougie laughed incredulously. ‘So why buy the best sporting estate in England and fill it with huntsmen, game and quarry?’

  ‘It’s business.’ He stood up and held out his arm to administer another shoulder-loosening handshake. ‘I believe in personal contact, which might seem weird for a shy kid who earned his first million sitting in his teenage bedroom creating social gaming networks. But that was why I did it. There’s nothing like floating your first company on the stock market before you’ve lost your virginity to get you out socializing.’

  ‘You’re probably not too old to join the Young Farmers.’

  That big smile stretched horizon wide, glowing like a city in a night sky. ‘Dollar’s right. You’re “exceptionally well suited”.’ He mimicked his assistant’s deep monotone. ‘I want you onside, Dougie, man.’

  ‘You’ll have my answer by the end of the week.’

  Dougie drove to the equine clinic where the vet still hummed depressingly over a dull-eyed, wheezing Zephyr and upped his painkillers, recommending a specialist hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber in Kentucky.

  ‘How do I get him there?’ Dougie was almost snapped out of his lethargy by the idea of a long road-trip, a mission to rehabilitate Zephyr, an escape from LA and Kiki, which didn’t involve poncing around a glorified stately theme park teaching Chinese manufacturing magnates how to shoot arrows.

  ‘We’ll fly him,’ the vet insisted. ‘Least invasive, as long as we keep the oxygen and fluids pumped in. He’ll need a specialist travelling veterinary nurse, and our sister practice in Lexington will co-ordinate.’ The cost made Dougie’s jaw drop; the oxygen treatment alone was a thousand dollars a day.

  ‘For that money, I’d rather fly him to England to chill out at grass with Dad’s hunters,’ he said flatly. That was where he was planning to send his old horse Harvey, if he could ever get through to Rupe.

  ‘It’s way too dangerous to fly him long haul yet,’ the vet insisted.

  Filled with self-reproach, Dougie tried calling Rupe as he took the cab to his friends’ house in the hills, but it went to voice mail as usual.

  There were six missed calls from Kiki and a lot of messages he didn’t bother to read as he rang her at the studio to see if he could catch her between scenes. Her PA answered.

  ‘Like, doh? She’s not filming today, Dougs. I know you’ve had a shit week, honey – Kiki said it was like something outta Black Beauty – but surely you haven’t forgotten her birthday? I heard you guys had something really romantic planned this evening.’

  Dougie thanked her politely, mood blackening. He had forgotten and would now have to throw air kisses at his friends before turning straight around to kiss arse. His birthday surprise wasn’t going to go down too well either. Breaking the news that he’d been offered a year’s acting work on location minus the camera and crew might be a bit left-field, but meeting Seth had finally kicked a little of the old, cocky Dougie back into touch and he was certain he could work things out. They needed some time apart. He could salvage this situation.

  The party was in full swing in the little house. It was always in full swing here, and the neighbours, who had given up complaining long ago, were partying too. The place was packed. The friends fell on Dougie as if he were a long lost soldier back from the wars.

  ‘Where have you been? Heard about the fire, you poor darling – have a drink. Have you met Charlie? Of course you have. You’re old buddies.’

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he insisted, but he was soon flying on Wild Turkey, several lines of Colombia’s finest and the last nullifying traces of the Xanax to stop him spiking. He didn’t bother checking his watch. He felt valued and wanted here, something badly lacking at home. He was a huge success by the standards of many friends, some struggling to get breaks in scriptwriting and production, their lavish LA lifestyle propped up by trust funds. He was a star turn. ‘Dougie was amazing in High Noon – did you see it? He is so talented.’

  ‘We worked together on Ptolemy Finch and the Emerald Falcon, d’you remember?’ He had been cornered by a very pretty blonde outside by the pool.

  ‘Sure! Of course. How the devil are you?’ Dougie kissed her cheeks, not remembering her at all. She smelt lovely and was fresh-faced, reminding him of a Swedish au pair he’d had briefly as a child who had read him Roald Dahl in a sing-song voice. ‘I’ll never forget our date.’ She giggled. ‘You were so funny and so hot.’

  ‘Wasn’t I just?’ He was pretty wasted now, so it was hard to keep just one of her in his line of vision. She kept splitting into two, but he kind of liked that. He’d always had a fantasy about identical twins. He woozily hoped he’d been funny and hot on their date in the witty and sexy sense, rather than in the wearing-too-many-layers-and-sweating-a-lot one.

  ‘I remember I told you I never sleep with a man on a first date so you called the waiter over and booked a table for two hours’ time so you could take me straight back out to dinner.’ She laughed. ‘I said it didn’t work like that. But then you fell for Iris and we never went out again.’

  ‘Silly of me.’ He was trying hard to stop his eyes crossing and not slur his words. �
�We must make that second date some time.’

  ‘I’m free tonight.’

  He had a vague feeling he had to be somewhere, but he couldn’t grasp the details. When he phoned ahead to reserve his favourite restaurant table, there was some confusion.

  ‘You already have a table booked with us tonight, Mr Everett, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s handy! What time?’

  They had over an hour to kill. He told the cab driver to go to a club he knew where they served the best whisky sours in Hollywood, but he was so wasted he kept getting the name wrong. He also started to feel seriously nauseous as the cab crawled towards West Hollywood in heavy traffic. The cough he’d had since the fire made him sound like a tuberculosis victim. He put his spinning head in his hands.

  ‘Are you okay?’